Free The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink by Christian Fletcher Page A

masking her face in shadow. More shambling, once human shapes loomed in the shadows behind her. I reached around my back and drew my Beretta. The thin window glass didn’t offer me much protection but I wasn’t about to open it and start taking pot shots at our attackers.
    “We should have taken a more suitable vehicle,” I whined.
    “Quit griping,” Smith barked. “It’s not my fucking fault this route was full of zombies. Cole said it was a clear path to the main gate and at the moment, we’re stuck with it.”
    I heard gear cogs whirr and grind in mechanized denial but eventually Smith managed to find a forward gear that engaged. He switched the headlamps to full but only one beam shone across the grassy ground. The Mustang fishtailed as Smith hit the gas, the side of the vehicle slamming into the leading female zombie and a few more of the undead behind her, sending them sprawling through the undergrowth.
    Smith regained control of the vehicle and sped as fast as the damaged engine would allow us. He looped around, through the tangle of trees and overhanging branches, searching for the solid road surface. I was worried about the loud knocking sound emitting from under the car’s hood. It sounded like a skeleton was trying to punch its way out through the metal. 
    “How long do you think this engine can run for?”
    “Long enough to get the hell out of here,” Smith growled.
    My front view was limited through the cracked windshield glass and I hoped Smith hadn’t become disorientated and heading in the wrong direction. Twenty yards to our left, I saw a glisten of blacktop between two high curbs illuminated in the moonlight.
    “Over there, to the left, Smith,” I bellowed, pointing the way.
    Smith craned his neck to the direction I was pointing, peering through the hole in the windshield glass.
    “Got it,” he snapped and swung hard to our left.
    The Mustang slewed sideways, knocking down two zombies in the process. Smith spun the steering wheel left and right, gaining some traction on the soft turf. The front wheels bounced down the high curb onto the road and I heard a sickening scraping noise as the car’s low hung undercarriage grated across the concrete blocks.
    “Ooh, shit!” I winced. “There goes the tail pipe.”
    Smith flashed me a threatening sideways glance that told me to shut up. The rear wheels bounced down the curb and the whole car juddered. I thought for one horrible second that the whole thing was about to fall to pieces around me like those clown cars you used to see at the circus.
    I turned to look out of the back window and saw the main body of the undead crowd still lumbering along the road, around thirty feet behind us. Smith glanced in his mirror and must have seen the same horrific sight. As he attempted to pull away, a horrendous screeching sound screamed from the engine. Maybe the skeleton inside the hood was now burning his ass on the red hot engine block and squealing in agony.
    “I don’t think this car is going to go on much further,” Smith yelled above the rattling and screeching.
    “Oh, you think?” I wailed.
    The poor Mustang now resembled something I remembered last being driven by a cartoon character called ‘ Dick Dastardly, ’ in a TV show called ‘ Wacky Races.’ The aforementioned animated villain usually had an oversized ‘ ACME ’ anvil dropped on his car from a great height every week but he always lived to fight another day, or another hilarious scenario. The similarities with my cartoon friend ended there. I never remembered an episode of the show when old ‘ Dick ’ was being pursued by a number of blood thirsty zombies.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Eleven
     
    The Mustang spluttered and coughed and screeched but somehow still carried on running. Every second it crept forward allowed us a little more space between us and the undead horde. I leaned across the front seats to look at the speedometer and saw we